


Lucky Bastard

by banksoflochlomond



Series: Lightbringer [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, and it's not even cannon, for once in his goddamn life, he was between a rock and a hard place, i never said it was good i just said i'm doing it, i'm kidding i love ned, it's not like i'm trying to hide it here, obviously, season 8 is a trainwreck and i'm trying to fix it tbh, what if ned stark was honorable AND told people their family histories?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-07 15:15:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19087639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banksoflochlomond/pseuds/banksoflochlomond
Summary: Jon Snow is a lucky bastard.He knows this. He knows that Ned is good and honorable, and that he is cared for and protected in the halls of Winterfell.But he is still a bastard.(A character study on Jon, with the events of Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire told entirely from his POV with changes that could mean nothing or everything, along the way.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Not that I think anyone would care too much (if anyone is reading this, or the author's note for that matter, at all) but I would like to say: don't read this if you'd rather just tag along for the ride.
> 
> I'm kind of tagging along for the ride, myself.
> 
> Anyway, a few things: 
> 
> Yes, Jon is still the rightful heir in this. It would make much more sense for him to be a bastard of Rhaegar and Lyanna, rather than the trueborn son, but I've got something up my sleeve to try and explain their marriage more thoroughly.
> 
> Targaryens are, for the most part, fireproof. In certain instances. Perhaps. I'm still working on the details, and I know that whatever happens in GoT with Dany and fire is a bastardization of the events in the books, but I figure the entire show at this point is a bastardization of the books (just like Jon Snow, haha), so I figure I'm allowed to bend a little.
> 
> I'm not good at writing political or military sequences. Or at all. And I figure no one wants to dwell much on those, since they're covered so thoroughly in the books. So. If and when I get there, it'll probably be quick-paced and not dwelled on.
> 
> Finally, the major change is that Ned tells Jon about his heritage before he leaves for the wall. Shocker!!!!! Except not really. I feel that, while Ned's reticence was understandable, perhaps in a different world Ned would still be honorable, but also tell John the truth. So, this is that different world.
> 
> There are probably other major changes as well, mind you. I just haven't gotten there yet.
> 
> Cool, thanks, bye.

Jon Snow is a lucky bastard.

He knows this. He knows that Ned is good and honorable, and that he is cared for and protected in the halls of Winterfell. He knows that he could easily have been dropped off at the nearest brothel or orphanage. That’s exactly what Robert Baratheon does, and he’s the bloody king. 

Ned Stark isn’t the king, but Jon knows he’s a better man than the king. It’s not a treasonous thought, either. Most would agree that Ned Stark is a good man. In all his lessons about Westeros’s history, there have been conquerors and madmen and bloodhounds and idiots for kings. But never once, was there a good man who was the king.

Ned Stark isn’t the king, and he is a good man, and Jon Snow is a lucky bastard. But he is still a bastard.

He feels it like a bruise. Or maybe a stain. That would make more sense, in the ways that he marked Ned Stark’s honor.

But it hurt too much. An ache that was bone-deep, in the ways that Catelyn Stark would glare at him. How Sansa ignored him, because she was too prim and proper to interact with commoners, no matter if she shared blood with them. In the ways that everyone who visited Winterfell would stop and stare at him, trying to take him apart and rebuild him as the woman who made Ned Stark lose all his honor. 

By the time that Jon is nine years old, he decides that he must get out of Winterfell. 

 

It’s a good place for a lucky bastard. Jon just doesn’t want to be a bastard at all.


	2. Pox

When Jon is three days shy of thirteen, he falls sick.

No one thought much of it. After all, Jon was only slightly feverish, and he seemed tired, but overall on the mend. Maester Luwin predicted a full recovery within a few days.

And then, the sores began appearing on his neck and forearms.

 

His bedding is stripped and burned, his windows shuttered and the door locked most of the time. The fire is built up so much that Jon sweats through his new sheets,  but every time he asks it to be tempered, the Maester insists that he’s trying to sweat out the sickness. Jon thinks that Luwin has resorted to far-fetched treatments of a dangerous illness.

  
  


***

His siblings are allowed to visit, sometimes.

 

Jon sleeps more and more. He starts to lose grip on the differences between day and night, and the times that he is awake, it feels hazy and distant. He begins to see shadows at the corners of his vision, even though there’s nothing but the fluttering flames in the fireplace.

 

Arya comes, but she’s mostly quiet, quieter than Jon’s used to. She’s not allowed to touch him, but her fingers play at the edge of his blankets. She grips a wooden sword that she knocks at the edge of Jon’s bed, and she says, “Please get better soon. It’s no fun to beat Robb and Theon and Bran without you.”

Robb also comes. He relays information about his days, about how sword practice and lessons and governance is all going. Jon often finds himself drifting in those moments, pulled into a more restful sleep because of Robb’s rhythmic, familiar voice. Sometimes before Robb leaves, Jon feels him card his fingers through Jon’s hair.

 

Bran didn’t come until Jon begins to hallucinate more vividly. A giant, bright white direwolf staring at him from across the room. A scorching fire that leaps up onto his bed, bright and consuming and licking at his entire body but never burning him. Blue roses, full-blown and dark as night, wrapping around his bed frame, pushing up through the cracks in the floors and the ceiling. Jon feels as though everything is converging on him--like life was bleeding onto life. No, that wasn’t quite right. Dreams bleeding into reality. The past and the presentallhappeningatonce but it wasn’t it wasn’t why was a red woman staring at him? What did she want with him?

_ Why can’t they leave him alone? _

 

“...I was reading a legend, this afternoon,” Bran says. “It was raining, so climbing would have been to slippery, and you know how Mother--ahem, Lady Stark is, with my climbing. She worries so much. Anyway, Maester Luwin showed me some of the hero’s tales, because he thought I’d like them. A bunch of them are centered around the Longest Night. You know, that thing that Old Nan used to scare us about? It seems that a lot of the hero legends are about the same guy--Azor Ahai, the Prince Who Was Promised, Edric Shadowchaser. It’s really interesting.There was also another guy, the Last Hero? He started the Night’s Watch, according to legend, and--”

 

Jon stares at the ceiling. Watches as dead hands begin to claw at the cracks in the wooden planks, and suddenly he sits bolt-upright, eyes wild. “Bran,” he says. “The--the Long Night.”

Bran jumps up, shaken. “Yeah--yeah,” he says. “That’s what I was--talking about. Jon, are you--?”

 

One of the wooden planks is ripped away from the ceiling. It lands with a crack next to the fire, spraying splinters everywhere. Jon bites down on his lips until he draws blood, trying not to scream, and watches as a half-rotted face peeks through the new gap in the ceiling. Its forehead was bashed in, and old dried blood flaked on its gray papery skin. Its blue eyes, wide and swiveling, zeroed in on Jon, and suddenly Jon knew what he had to do.

 

Jon reaches for Bran, grabbing and gasping wildly. Bran dances away from his grip just in time, but it doesn’t stop Jon. Bran has to hear--has to  _ know. _

“We’ve got to  _ burn them, _ ” Jon tells Bran urgently. “We’ve got to burn them all.”

 

***

 

Jon falls into a restless sleep, as endless as it is fitful.

Shadows still dance along the walls. Jon doesn’t remember any of them. At one point he turns his head to stare at the large snout of a dragon, and he screams so loudly that the entire castle can hear him. When he next wakes, he can’t remember it at all.

 

There only two instances of clarity for Jon, in the heat of this sickness.

 

One is his father, watching him silently. His dark grey eyes are stormy, and his teeth are worrying at his lower lip.

“Father,” Jon croaks, and Ned smiles, more sadly than Jon has ever seen anyone smile. 

“Get better,” Ned says, in his low voice. It was a command. Gentle and stern. “Be safe.”

“Safe...from what?” Jon asks. His voice cracks as much as the fire next to his bed.

Ned smiles again. It’s impressive, considering how much the corners of his lips want to turn down. “Sleep now, Jon. Maester Luwin says it’s the only thing that could help you now.”

Jon nods, and closes his eyes again.

  
  


The other instance is odder.

 

Sometimes Jon swears that it couldn’t have happened, but he knows that it did. Knows by the seven-pointed star that he kept at the base of his wardrobe afterward.

 

When Jon wakes up, everything feels dimmer. Even the fire has faded.

There’s one point of brightness in the room. A flash of red. Jon turns, expecting Sansa.

Instead he’s greeted with a more weathered, but still beautiful, face.

 

Lady Stark.

 

Her face is closed off, as it always is when he's around her. But she’s there. At his bedside. In his addled mind, he can’t even begin to piece together what it means. She’s fidgeting with something in her lap--knitting, maybe.

She’s looking at him, has been for quite some time. She didn’t move an inch when Jon met her eyes. Her expression is unreadable.

Jon doesn’t know what to do. What to think. If he can even think at all.

Jon closes his eyes again, and hopes that Lady Stark does not take it as an offense. 

Lady Stark keeps playing with her embroidery. 

 

After a while, Jon hears her shift in her seat. He feels the ghost of something over his head, and for a wild moment, he wonders if she reached out to him. Slowly, though, Lady Stark shifts back, and keeps working on her project.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” she says softly. For what, Jon couldn’t begin to guess at.

 

***

 

In the morning, his fever had broken. At his windowsill hung a seven-pointed prayer star.

Maester Luwin called it a miracle.

 

Jon stared at the prayer star, and wondered what Lady Stark had been sorry for.


	3. Dark Sister

Arya had developed a fascination with Visenya Targaryen.

 

Arya hardly ever paid attention during her lessons with Maester Luwin. She much preferred to run around Winterfell with her wooden sword, challenging knights to duels and practicing combat against the walls of Winterfell. Sometimes she would seek out Jon instead of going to lessons, and the two of them would hide together while Luwin hunted around for them.

Jon had to go to lessons when he was younger, but now he was fourteen, and he’d made the good argument to his father that if he was never going to be anything but a bastard, then his lessons wouldn’t make much of a difference. He could read and write well enough, and he was much more concerned with sword fighting than the sigils of the great houses.

 

“I wish I was a bastard,” Arya told Jon, during one of their hideout sessions. They were in the storage shed for the battle axes, one of Arya’s favorite hideout spots.

Jon’s eyes widened. “No, you don’t,” he said, grabbing her shoulders. 

“Why not?” Arya asked angrily, pushing at him. “I wouldn’t have to go to these stupid lessons, and I wouldn’t be expected to act ladylike, and I could practice sword fighting with you more and do whatever I wanted!”

“Arya,” Jon said, “it’s not that simple. Girls aren’t supposed to like what you like, whether they’re highborn or not. And yes, that’s wrong, but nothing can change that, not right now. You’ve got a family that love you, you’ve got a castle, and you’ve got more options than you know. Especially with Ned Stark as your father.”

 

Arya frowned, and leaned back against the shed. “Visenya Targaryen could do whatever she wanted, even if she  _ was  _ a girl.”

Jon smiled. “From one of your lessons?”

“Only one I cared about,” Arya said. “She was a conqueror, Jon. A dragonrider who helped subdue all seven kingdoms, even the North, which had never bent to anybody. Her sword, Dark Sister, is one of the most famous swords throughout all of Westeros. She wore battle armor and was a strategist, smarter than Aegon according to Luwin. He says she created the Kingsguard. A woman did all of that, Jon, and no one could question her.”

“She sounds fierce,” Jon said. “Almost as fierce as you.”

“If she was allowed to do all of that, why am I expected to be a lady? Why can’t I do the things that she did?” Arya points out, crossing her arms.

Jon hesitates. “Well, she had a dragon, for starters.”

Arya glares at him.

Jon sighs. “And apart from that, she was fully grown when she did that. And I know it’s annoying to hear, but sometimes you have to wait to do the things that you want. You need to listen to others before they listen to you. But I promise,” Jon says, looking her straight in the eye, “you’re just as fierce as a Targaryen,  _ and _ you have the wolf in your heart. You’re better than Theon at combat, you’re getting as good as Robb, and _ maybe _  one day you’ll beat me. So no matter what, you’re somebody that Visenya Targaryen would have been proud of.”

Arya bit her lip. “I’m going to beat you tomorrow,” Arya said. “Or the next day. You’ll see.”

“Doubtful.”

Arya pushed at him, and he smiled. “Also, you’ll be better than Visenya Targaryen because you won’t marry your brother,” he added on, making a face.

Arya laughed. 

 

“A Targaryen who wasn’t incestuous would have been a miracle to the world, truly,” said another voice.

Arya and Jon glance up to see Maester Luwin standing at the shed gate, now propped open.

“I believe it is time for your lessons, little Lady,” Luwin said. “Past time, really.”

Arya sighs, but stands up, dusting off her trousers. She shuffles out of the shed slowly, Jon following her.

They part ways at the end of the shed--Arya’s hand firmly tucked in Luwin’s elbow as he guided her toward the castle, and Jon toward the forges, or maybe the field.

Arya turned her head to catch Jon’s eyes. “Hey, Jon,” she says. “I don’t care whether you’re a bastard or not. You’re still my favorite brother.”

Jon nods, turning to take his leave. He couldn’t fool Arya, though. She’d seen the upturn of his eyes and the way his shoulders settled back as he walked away.

 

***

 

Their Uncle Benjen visits the next week.

 

They put together a small feast for Benjen, even if Benjen had said it wasn’t necessary. He rides in with three other Brothers from the Night’s Watch, and everyone can hear them before they see them. Benjen’s booming laugh seemed to echo through the hills.

Jon had always liked Benjen. The earliest memory Jon has of Benjen is Benjen’s thick, calloused hand running through his hair as Benjen loudly proclaimed, “A Stark, through and through! Look at those curls!”

Benjen always mentors with Jon’s sword fighting, marveling at Jon’s progress and giving lots of claps on the back. And it feels--good. Jon knows that his father loves him, more than he probably should, considering Jon’s status and everything. Jon knows that his father has protected him and cared for him and offered him everything that he could, and Jon will be forever grateful for it.

But there’s something about Benjen’s open affection and his beaming smiles. His indiscriminate love for all his nephews and nieces, whether they were bastards or not. The way he holds himself, in his black fur cloaks, a hand always on the hilt of his sword. A jolly soldier, through and through.

 

At the feast, Benjen moves about the hall instead of sticking to one place. He always has a goblet of ale in his hand, and he regales the guests with tales of wildling raids and the perpetual winter that was found at the Wall.

When Benjen makes his way to Jon, Jon is fiddling with his cup, a vague notion starting to build in his head.

“Don’t you look happy,” Benjen says with a wink, sitting himself down across from Jon.

“How are you, Uncle?” Jon asks politely.

“Marvelous,” Benjen says, draining his cup. He nods to a nearby servant who replenishes it. “I see you’re also incredibly happy. Smile on your face. Whistling. The sun shining through your--”

“Uncle,” Jon says, grinning but casting a not-so-subtle glance to Lady Stark. “There are women in the hall.”

“My point still stands.”

“I wasn’t aware I always had to be beaming.”

“Oh, of course not,” Benjen says. “That would be grounds for insanity. But I don’t think I’ve seen you smile since you were a babe...well, actually, I don’t know whether you smiled then. You were the first baby I’d ever met that was called ‘sullen.’”

Jon shrugs. “Strong personality trait, then.”

“Indeed,” Benjen says. “Would you like to practice sword fighting after this whole mess is done with?”

“Gods, yes,” Jon says.

 

***

 

Winter was settling in on Winterfell, and the night was crisp and chill. Luckily, it was clear, with bright white stars twinkling like ice, carrying the promise of no snow for the next few hours. Already, the ground was a dirty white, crunchy with snowmelt and the grime from men’s boots. Jon and Benjen picked their way across the courtyard, stopping near a fire pit.

Benjen stooped down with his torch, lighting the wet wood inside with some difficulty. He managed to coax a roaring fire from it, though, because, as he told Jon, “Sometimes there’s nothing to build a fire from except ice itself, at the Wall, and so you learn how to build it anyway.”

 

Jon wants to hear more about the Wall. He imagines it as something wondrous and magnificent. A wall that scrapes the sky, shimmering and steadfast. A shield of winter, something entirely man-made. A testament to the wills of men long past.

“Sword up,” Benjen tells Jon, and Jon pulls his blade up.

 

They practice for a long time. Jon has improved remarkably since Benjen last visited, and Benjen notes this with both surprise and pride. It makes Jon stand taller, fight harder. Benjen wins most of their bouts, but it takes more effort.

“We could use men with half your skill at the Wall,” Benjen says, as Jon ends with his sword at Benjen’s throat. One of the rarer outcomes, and one that makes Jon feel strong and worthwhile.

“Then let me come to the Wall,” Jon says. It slips out, without meaning to.

Benjen raises an eyebrow. “You want to be a Brother?”

 

Jon sighs, lowering his sword. “There’s not a future for me here at Winterfell.”

“I’m sure your brother Robb would love to have you serving him,” Benjen says carefully. “He adores you, same as you do him.”

“Yes, but…” Jon looks off to the side. “I’ll always be Ned Stark’s bastard, at Winterfell.”

 

Jon refuses to lift his head, so he doesn’t see Benjen’s eagle-eyed stare at him. Jon wraps both hands around the hilt of his sword, driving it into the ground. “This is what I’m good at. And if it’s true that every man of the Night’s Watch is considered a brother, is considered equal no matter their background--it feels like the one place I could go where I wouldn’t have to be a Stark bastard.”

Benjen is quiet when Jon finally looks up. He seems conflicted--one half of his mouth curving down, the other pressed tightly together. He rubs at the base of his neck with his hands.

 

“You going to the Night’s Watch isn’t my decision to make,” Benjen says, finally. “That would be your father’s, because no matter what, you still are his son.”

Jon blinks. “But--he’s never even let me leave the castle! He’s let Robb, his  _trueborn heir,_  but not me! He’d never let me join the Night’s Watch and you  _ know  _ that.”

“It’s not my decision to make,” Benjen says again, more firmly.

“But Uncle Benjen, he’d listen to you--”

“And I’m not a part of this,” Benjen says. “It’s between you and your father, not me.”

“But if you’d convince him that it was safe for me--”

“Enough,” Benjen says. “Sword up.”

“Uncle--”

“Sword. Up.”

 

Jon glares at him, and lunges with his sword. Benjen leaps back and parries, but Jon keeps advancing, slashing and jabbing. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to prove; all he knows is that there’s something hot and bloody in his chest, and it feels awful and he needs Benjen to  _ know. _ Needs Benjen to know that Jon is strong, and brave, and deadly, and searingly angry.

“Jon,” Benjen says, blocking another jab. He leaps left and forward, and Jon follows, pushing the hilt of his sword forward.

“Jon, stop.”

 

Another parry, another step forward and then back. Benjen slashes at Jon’s sword, trying to knock it out of his hand, but it only rips at Jon’s sleeve. Jon grimaces, and rolls it up. Before Benjen can react, Jon once again ducks and slashes upward.

 

“Jon!” Benjen parries, and then ducks and shoves Jon backward. Jon’s back hits something solid. His arm falls backward into a warm, licking thing, and Benjen shouts.

 

Jon pushes himself up as Benjen lurches forward, grabbing at Jon’s arm.

“Are you hurt, boy? How do you feel?” Benjen asks hurriedly, gently pressing his fingers into Jon’s skin.

“I--I’m fine, Uncle Benjen, I’m all right,” Jon says, shock knocking him out of--whatever he had felt.

Benjen stares at Jon’s arm. Pale and unbroken as the rest of his skin. “And so you are,” Benjen says, a note of... _ something  _ in his voice.

“What, Uncle Benjen?” Jon asks. “Is something wrong?”

“I thought perhaps you had gotten burned by the fire pit,” Benjen says, which explains what Jon had hit. “But it appears that I was mistaken.”

 

“Oh,” Jon says. “Yeah, I’m all right. And...I’m sorry, for--I was just…”

“No matter,” Benjen says. “But I think we should call it a night.”

“Oh--right.  Of course.”

 

Benjen hesitates for a moment, and then he reaches out and pulls Jon into a loose, one-armed hug. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he says softly. “Truly, I am.”

Jon blinks, a bit confused. “I’m sorry for worrying you, Uncle.”

Benjen nods, and leans back to look at Jon in the eyes. He remains there for a moment, eyes seemingly searching for something. By the time he lets go and begins to walk toward his quarters, Jon is still unsure if he’s found what he was looking for.

 

***

 

The morning before Benjen is mean to return to the Wall, Benjen finds Jon as he makes his way to the master-of-arms.

“I talked to your father,” Benjen says, “and we both agreed that when you’re a bit older, if you’d still like to join the Night’s Watch, then you can.”

Jon stops in his tracks. “Are you sure, Uncle?”

Benjen shrugs. “As I said, we could use men with your talents. You’re too young now, but as you grow and practice, you may outpace our own Lord Commander at some point.”

“I--thank you, Uncle. I know you didn’t want to talk to him,” Jon says.

“I owed you that much,” Benjen says.

“How did you manage to convince him?”

Benjen shrugs. “I just told him the truth. That although the Wall was a dangerous place, it could also be a safe one.”


	4. Ghosts

His direwolf is quieter than all the rest.

 

Perhaps because he was smaller, weaker, the runt of the litter and an albino to boot. Theon had gone so far as to call the wolf the bastard of the pack. He most definitely thought that he was being clever.

 

Jon thinks that his direwolf is mute. It would explain why all the others howl and yip, while his wolf seems to sneak up on everybody, even Jon. It hardly ever engages in the play fights, either. It sits along the sidelines, watching quietly. Sometimes, Jon will look up and see his wolf just sitting there, waiting for Jon’s next command.

 

Sansa named her direwolf Lady, and Arya named hers Nymeria. Robb was still playing around with names, but Jon could tell that he was going to settle on Grey Wind. Rickon named his Shaggydog, because “his hair is shaggy!”

Bran was taking his time on the name, as was Jon. Jon just couldn’t think of a name fitting enough for his wolf. Jon didn’t want to choose a name that wouldn’t fit him. He needed something that was what the direwolf was, through and through.

 

“Maybe you could name him Silver,” Robb suggests as they watch their wolves run out ahead of them.

“Silver?”

“Yeah, because he’s silver,” Robb says.

“That’s a bit on the nose,” Jon says. “Also, his hair is white, Robb.”

Robb shrugs. “Sounds better than ‘White.’”

 

Jon rolls his eyes. “Did you hear that Father got a crow from King Robert?”

“Doesn’t he get crows from Robert all the time?”

“Yeah, but this one is different,” Jon says. “The king’s coming up to visit Winterfell this time.”

“Where’d you hear this?”

“I was helping out Maester Luwin when it came in, so I delivered it to Father.”

 

Robb stares out at Grey Wind, who was now chasing after Jon’s direwolf. Jon’s wolf was faster than Grey Wind, though, and he watched as Jon’s wolf gained distance on Grey Wind.

“Jon Arryn just died,” he says, “and he was the Hand of the King.”

Jon turns to look at Robb. “You don’t think…?”

“Why else would he make a month-long journey?”

 

They fall silent. Jon turns to look at the wolves again, and suddenly realizes that his isn’t with Grey Wind. “Shit, where did he go?” Jon says, turning to look across the horizon--

Only to find him right at Jon’s heels. Jon jumped. “God, you’re like a ghost.”

The direwolf pushed its nose against Jon’s thigh, and Jon gives in, kneeling to run his hands through its white fur.

“That’s just what you are, aren’t you?” Jon says softly. “Ghost.”

“Really?” Robb says from above him. Jon looks up, and smiles at Robb’s exasperated expression. “That’s as moody and as sullen as I thought you’d choose.”

“Shut up,” Jon says.

“I’m to be the Lord of Winterfell in Father’s absence,” Robb says carelessly. “You can’t speak to me that way.”

“I apologize. Shut up, my lord.”

Robb snorts, and Jon smiles, curling his fingers deeper into Ghost’s fur.

 

***

 

Jon only knows a few things about King Robert.

 

One was that his claim to the throne rested on his distant relation to the Targaryens. With the Targaryen Dynasty all but wiped out (he heard Maester Luwin speak of unconfirmed reports that two of Aerys's children had been smuggled out of Westeros, forced to live in exile in Essos) King Robert had the greatest claim to the throne, despite the fact that _ he  _ was the one who wiped all the Targaryens out.

 

Jon also knows that he considers Ned Stark a brother, and that’s probably why he’s choosing Ned Stark above all else for Hand of the King. Ned had already wormed his way out of the royal council once, and there was no way he could avoid it again. Ned and Robert were the ones who were considered the heroes of Robert’s Rebellion, the ones who saved Westeros from certain demise.

 

Ned never talked about the Rebellion, though. Never about his own siblings, or his father. So, despite Robert’s Rebellion being a large part of Westerosi history and Jon’s own personal history, he only knows the basic facts: Rhaegar Targaryen stole away Lyanna Stark, Jon’s aunt, despite being married to Elia Martell. He raped her and kept her as a prisoner, and so Brandon and Rickard Stark, Ned’s brother and father, rode to the capital to plead for her safe return. There, the Mad King ordered their executions, and the executions of incredible scores of people. As a result, Ned and Robert, who was promised to Lyanna, went to war, eventually overthrowing and killing nearly all of the Targaryens with the help of the Lannisters. 

Lyanna Stark died of fever in captivity, unfortunately. So Robert married Cersei Lannister instead, as a reward for the Lannisters’ help in the war. 

 

Oh, and Jon was conceived and born during Robert’s Rebellion. But the hows and the whys and the whos of his mysterious mother were never answered properly, for Jon.

 

He couldn’t even make a proper guess as to who she was, because he looked so much like his father. 

And perhaps that was how it was meant to be. Maybe he was only his father’s son, through and through. Stark down to the very core of his bones, such a wolf that it didn’t matter what the other half was, if it was anything at all.

 

But with King Robert arriving soon, stirring up all these histories once more...Jon can’t help but wonder. Who his mother was. Who could have swayed Ned Stark's honor, become someone that he loved so much that he couldn’t even dare speak her name. Why, out of all things, his mother may be the best-kept secret in all of Westeros. 

Hells, even Renly Baratheon’s predisposition towards men was a “secret” known to everyone in all of Westeros. Why would Jon Snow’s parentage be something that was taken to the grave?

 

But such was the way of Ned Stark. Honorable, solemn, and quiet until his last breath. 

And it was an honor for Jon to call him his father, even if he didn’t have a mother to call his own.

 

***

 

It still swirls around his mind, however, in the days leading up to King Robert’s arrival.

 

It seems that every floor is scrubbed, every stone washed, every wall draped with banners and tapestries woven in the royal colors. The stables have extensions added on, furniture is added to the guest rooms, and everywhere Jon walks, he hears music practiced for the feast of the king’s arrival.

 

Just as the music swirls around Winterfell, so do Jon's thoughts about his mother. 

It feels as though every corner he turns, he feels a whisper of her in the wind. She is nameless and faceless, but he feels her all the same. He hasn’t known anything of her for so long that he can’t even begin to imagine what she looked like. What she sounded like. If she loved him. If she was still alive. Jon imagined that the last two couldn’t both be true, no matter how much he would like it to be.

If she loved him, she would have raised him. If she was still alive, then she gave him away to his father willingly, and never visited again.

 

The truth of Jon’s mother couldn’t be happy. But it had to be  _ something, _ and it had to be something that Jon knew. 

 

King Robert’s arrival turned from a month, to weeks, to days. And all Jon wanted was a face, a name, a  _ clue  _ to his mother.

 

Four days before Robert was meant to arrive, Ned Stark called Jon to his chambers.

 

Ned stands with his hands behind his back. Then he shifts them forward, to meet in front of chest. He takes a step forward, and then switches his hands behind his back again.

 

“Father?” Jon asks.

“Jon,” Ned says. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the King hardly ever comes this far north.”

“I am,” Jon says.

“And Jon Arryn, the former Hand of the King, has recently died.”

“You expect to be named Hand of the King in his place,” Jon says.

 

“There’s only one reason why the King would go so far out of his way to visit Winterfell,” Ned says, nodding. “And I can’t deny him, as he is my king.”

Jon nods. 

 

“Robb will be the acting Lord of Winterfell,” Ned says, “and Lady Stark will need to remain here, to care for the children. I wouldn’t want them raised in King’s Landing. It’s not a good place for a child.”

“Of course.”

 

Ned Stark sighs, and scrubs a hand over his face. For the first time, Jon can see how tired he looks. “Lady Stark refuses to host you here, while I am gone. Although Robb has offered to vouch for you, and I am sure that he would, I...I can’t expect him to do such a thing.”

“Father, it’s all right.”

 

Ned looks at Jon, pressing his lips together. “I don’t want to force your leave without prior arrangements,” Ned says. “You are eighteen now. You are a man. And one of the best sword fighters I have ever seen. As I’m sure you know, Benjen has already embarked on a journey back down to Winterfell to join us for the feast, and to discuss the reports of the wildlings at the Wall. He expects to take you back up to the Wall with him.”

Jon feels his heart swell in his chest. “Thank you, Father.”

Ned Stark nods. “Be careful, Jon, and be safe.”

“Of course, Father,” Jon says, bowing his head. When he brings his head back up, he swears he can feel a whisper of his mother’s presence near him.  _ A blue rose, _ Jon thinks, a bit nonsensically.

 

“Father,” Jon says. “Before I am dismissed...I’d like to know about my mother. After you leave with King Robert, and I leave with Uncle Benjen, we will not see one another again for a long while, and you always promised that you would tell me about her.”

Ned smiles at him, wan and tight.

“I remember when you were a boy,” Ned says, “and you wanted to know about her. I’d tell you to wait until you were old enough, and for days you’d ask if you were old enough yet.”

 

“She is a ghost to me, Father,” Jon says. “And she always will be. But if I heard about her--if I knew her name--maybe she could be a ghost I could understand better.”

Ned presses his lips together. “You’re joining the Night’s Watch soon,” he says, as if it were a reminder, a prayer. He sighs. “And you deserve to know.”

 

Jon catches his breath.

 

“I always promised you when you were older, and I always strive to keep my promises,” Ned says. “But...not now. I can’t tell you now. The night before we leave, then. I will tell you the night before the two of us leave.”

“Thank you, Father,” Jon says, bowing his head once more, and turning to take his leave.

 

“Jon,” Ned calls out.

“Yes, Father?” Jon turns to look at Ned. 

“You are my blood,” Ned says, “and I am sworn to protect you. Remember that, no matter what.”

 

***

 

King Robert is everything and nothing like Jon expected.

He is loud and boastful, with a thick, deep voice that sounded like the taste of ale. He pounded Ned on the back with incredible ferocity, and then complained about the length of the journey with a beaming smile on his face. 

 

Cersei Lannister hovered at the background of this exchange  with her three children. Her hair was piled high on top of her head in golden braids, and she seemed to be fighting back a perpetual sneer that threatened her lips.

 

As the bastard son of Ned Stark, but the son nonetheless, Jon was required to be a part of the greeting party. He wasn’t allowed to stand near the rest of the family, though. He stood off to the side instead, a clear indication of his rank and how he factored into the family. (Never mind that Theon was allowed to stand with the Stark family. Never mind that at all.)

 

It wasn’t much of a matter anymore. When he was younger, and didn’t know his place, the few times that a lord or lady would visit Winterfell, Jon would try to edge closer to his family, to make faces at Robb or stand closer to his father. Only the frosty look from Lady Stark would deter him from reaching his family.

Now, Jon hovers at the back, same as Cersei, and watches the king slap Ned’s back in what surely must be a friendly gesture, but in practice seemed more like he was trying to swat at Ned. Ned continued to smile, quiet and dutiful as always, and Jon begins to realize that Robert likes Ned much more than Ned likes Robert.

 

Robert declares that it’s much too cold to be standing outside for much longer, which is the cue to move everything inside. Lady Stark curtsies, and Ned bows, and the children are pushed to do the same. Jon stands with his back at attention, and no one notices that the bastard doesn’t bow.

 

***

 

Once Robert is settled into Winterfell, Jon goes out again to meet Benjen, who was expected a bit later than King Robert. Ned had asked him to meet Benjen beforehand, and Jon had readily agreed. Now, he’s able to make faces at Robb as Robb is forced to laugh at another one of the king’s bawdy jokes.

 

Jon retrieves Ghost from the kennels, running his fingers through Ghost’s fur and scratching him on the head. Ghost follows Jon as he makes his way over to the gates of Winterfell.

As if on cue, the gates lift, and Benjen bounds through on his horse, smile wide. His hair is longer and thicker, and his beard is as well. His face looks a bit stretched thin, but it’s still Benjen. Jon feels the corners of his mouth relaxing, and he and Ghost follow Benjen to the stables, where he dismounts.

 

“Oh, it’s good to see you again, boy,” Benjen says, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “And I see your father wasn’t kidding about the direwolf.”

“This is Ghost,” Jon says.

Benjen grins, clapping Jon on the back. “Where is your good old father, anyway? Entertaining King Robert?”

“Something like that,” Jon says. “I think Robert may be entertaining him, more like.”

“Always has been that way,” Benjen says. “Are you to show me to my quarters?”

“Of course, Uncle,” Jon says, and gestures for them to begin walking. “This way.” 

And then, because he can’t help it: “Father says I can come back with you to the Wall. Pledge myself to the Night’s Watch.”

 

Benjen nods, smiling. “We’ve been talking about it. It’s part of my purpose for coming here, after all.”

Jon smiles and ducks his head, in return. “Father also said you were here to discuss reports at the Wall?”

 

Benjen’s face darkens. It seems as though a storm system begins to take over his face. “Yes, well. That’s a different matter.”

“What’s happening? If you don’t mind my asking.”

As they reach the entrance of the Great Hall, Benjen hesitates. “Well, it started with murmurings from the wildlings. Not exactly reliable sources of information. But then--with the deserter your father dealt with months ago--well. It could be nothing. Ghost stories, probably. All they are.”

“And if there are ghosts?” Jon asks, mostly without thinking.

“Well,” Benjen says, “We’ll deal with them.” 

 

The storm system breaks across his face, and Benjen smiles a merry smile once more. 

“Anyway,” he says, “There’s a feast we’re attending! A king’s feast, no less. And that’s no topic of conversation at a king’s feast, wouldn’t you agree?”


	5. Blood

It takes all of Jon’s effort to not meet with his Father first on the night before they leave.

 

But he must say goodbye to Arya first. Especially now, because she’ll be an entire continent away as a result of Joffrey and Sansa’s betrothal.

So he wraps the sword he’d had made in a dry cloth, and he knocks on Arya’s door first, trying to calm the shaking in his bones. This was about Arya first. He’d learn about his mother later, but his sister came first.

 

“Come in!”

 

***

 

As Jon heads toward the Godswood, time seems to both slip away and churn too slowly.

Jon considers whether he should go at all. Perhaps it is best to leave it be; he had for eighteen years, what was eighteen more? 

 

Except he hadn’t, not really. He’d poked and prodded, and was shut down at every turn.

 

Until he wasn’t.

 

Was he a coward? To want something so much, that as soon as he was promised it, he became terrified? How could you want something that much? Did he want it at all?

Of course he did; for as long as he could remember, he’d wanted a mother. And when he couldn’t get her, he’d wanted the next best thing, the only thing to fill that gap: the truth.

 

So why was he terrified now?

 

Perhaps it had gone on too long. Perhaps he’d built it up in his head. Maybe his father really hadn’t loved his mother. Perhaps she really was a drunken fling, who died on her birthing bed, and his father was too honorable to ignore his mistakes. Perhaps he never talked about her because she was nothing but a blight on his otherwise spotless honor. Perhaps he didn’t want to explain the rivers of regret that he felt when he looked at Jon.

 

Jon realizes that he’s stopped walking, so he forces himself to put one foot in front of the other. No matter the answer, it does not change the fact that Ned promised him one. And Jon promised to meet him there.

So Jon walks into the Godswood, trying his best to hide the shaking in his hands, the wobble in his spine.

 

***

 

Ned Stark is waiting for him, back straight and hands behind his back, like a good soldier.

 

Jon approaches carefully, slowly. “Father,” he says, in greeting. 

Ned smiles at him. “How did Arya like her gift?” he asks.

Jon blinks. “How’d you--?”

“Everyone at the forge knew it was being made for a small child,” Ned says. “And they wanted to make sure I was all right with it. I figured it was a parting gift for Arya. Quite fitting, as well.”

Jon inclines his head. “I wanted to make sure she could protect herself,” he says. “Just like she always wanted to.”

 

Ned’s smile grows a bit watery. He sits himself down on the large boulder next to the tree, and gestures for Jon to sit down as well. “She is so like Lyanna,” Ned says. “Looks just like her, too. Both of you. So...entirely Stark.”

“Sometimes I wondered if I had a mother at all,” Jon admits. “Sometimes I thought perhaps I came from a weirwood tree, another son for Ned Stark that came from nowhere.”

 

Ned hesitates. “I never told you about Robert’s Rebellion. About my attempt to save Lyanna. Please, listen.”

“Of course, Father.”

 

***

 

“Robert and I...we searched high and low for her. We couldn’t figure out where she’d gone, where she’d been secreted away. She’d been gone for months...almost a year. Finally, I heard word of a tower, in Dorne. There was no time--Robert was attacking King’s Landing. But I had a fast ship, and loyal men. I left to go after her, sending a crow to Robert at the same time.

 

“I followed the word of Dornish commonfolk. It felt like it took ages--too long, but I finally found it. A tower on the highest hill in Dorne. There was--the Red Comet. I could see it clearer than I ever had before. It seemed like it made the entire sky bleed. Like maybe Lyanna did that--as she bled, the sky bled. 

“There were some guards there, but not many. I had Howland Reed with me, and a few other men. They all died fighting to get into that tower. Reed didn’t, though. But he stayed with the horses as I climbed the tower, and as I climbed--Lyanna’s screams became audible, then loud, so loud it hurt. It didn’t sound human, but I knew--I  _ knew  _ it was Lyanna. 

 

“I thought someone was hurting her. Rhaegar was long dead, but I swore to kill him, I swore to every God above. I ran all the way up the steps to her. I wanted to save her.

“When I got there...she was laying on a bed, covered in blood. There was so much of it. Less bloodshed had killed weaker men than Lyanna. But she was clinging onto life, despite all of it. She was covered in sweat, and she didn’t seem to know where she was at all. But as soon as she saw me, she smiled. She reached out to me.

 

“I told her I’d fix this. I’d carry her all the way back to Dorne. I’d get the Maesters. I’d have them perform blood magic. I’d tie her to a weirwood tree and threaten the Old Gods and the New, until someone--anyone--saved her.

 

“She just shook her head. There were footsteps behind me, and when I looked up--it was a nurse. Carrying a baby. And that’s when I realized--it took me a while, but only for shock of seeing Lyanna, I think. She was on her birthing bed. She was on her birthing bed, and she was dying.

“‘You have to promise me that he’ll be safe,’ she’d said to me. ‘His name is Jaehaerys. You have to promise me that you’ll keep him safe for me.  _ Promise me. _ ’

 

“I didn’t know what to say. I pressed a hand to her forehead. She was incredibly feverish. She had--minutes, maybe hours. I tried to protest, to find her a doctor, but she refused. Just insisted that I keep her baby safe. 

 

“I couldn’t deny her that. I could never deny my blood the safety and protection that he deserves, Jon. You _must_ know that.”

 

***

 

Jon sits and stares at the weirwood tree, in the darkness. 

He feels his father looking at him, waiting. He doesn’t demand a reaction, though. That’s not Ned’s way.

 

“I...um. What happened to the baby?” Jon asks quietly. “You never said.”

 

“Jon,” his father says. His voice drops like a weight on Jon, and suddenly, he’s up and pacing, back and forth, then back and forth, again and again.

“No, it’s--you couldn’t--knowing what Rhaegar did to Lyanna, there’s no way you could just...keep it. Protect it. Knowing that it’s--that he--it--the baby was a product of what happened to Lyanna. It caused a  _ war. _ Men died.”

“Jon,” Ned says again. “Look at me.”

Jon shakes his head, again and again and again. Like he’s trying to get water out of his ear. 

 

_ “Jon,” _ Ned says, a hand landing heavy on Jon’s shoulder. “Look at me.”

 

Jon turns and stares up at Ned. 

 

His face was serious, and solemn, and everything that Jon had always remembered. Ned was the same exact person he was just an hour ago, before everything happened. Before Jon had stepped into the Godswood.

Jon wishes he never had.

 

“You need to understand,” he says, “that Lyanna--despite the fever, the deliriousness--I had never seen her so desperate before. She never begged for anything. She never cared enough to. But she begged for you. She loved you, more than anything else in this world. I don’t think I’ll ever know what happened between Rhaegar and Lyanna. But I do know that you weren’t ever unwanted. You weren’t ever unloved.”

 

Jon shivers. “I can’t--I can’t be, though. I can’t be a...I mean, I just, I can’t.”

“You are,” Ned says simply. “And it’s incredibly dangerous. Which is why you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone, ever. Not even taking the black could wholly protect you, not if Robert knew the real truth. He would stop at nothing.”

Ned trails off. Jon swallows. “Father,” he starts, and then stops. “Lord Stark,” he tries again.

 

Ned just shakes his head. “You are my blood,” he says, “and I have you raised you as my son, and so you are mine, now. Take the black, Jon. Join the Night’s Watch. Try and forget what you’ve learned--it’s safer that way.”

Ned nods once, and turns on his heel. Jon realizes he’s leaving. That the conversation’s over.

 

“Wait,” Jon says, “Father.”

Ned turns.

“You’re--a good man,” Jon says, “for risking everything. For me, I mean. Thank you.”

Ned smiles. “You are my blood,” he says, as if it explains everything. Perhaps it does, to him.

 

As Ned Stark leaves the Godswood, Jon sits back on the boulder and considers it.

He thinks that Ned might not only be the most honorable man he’s ever known--perhaps he is the most honorable man this world has known.

 

Then he considers his real father, and flinches hard enough that he decides to fold it away and think of nothing at all.

 

***

 

He sits on that boulder until the early streaks of morning arrive, and a red comet blooms in the sky like a wound.

Then, and only then, does he turn and finally follow Ned Stark out of the Godswood.


End file.
